Trapped
by Rainey13
Summary: The trust between Peter and Neal was shattered at the end of "Under the Radar." So when a new case goes wrong will they be able to work together to resolve it?
1. Fraud

_**A/N: OK, I admit it, I'm a huge fan of the bromance between Peter and Neal, and I want the rift created in "Under the Radar" fixed – and quickly! Since I have to wait until June to see how the show will handle this, I figured I'd do my own take. And it worked out to use an idea that Tim DeKay has said would be one of his dream episodes :-)**_

* * *

"All right, new case, people. Pay attention." Peter handed the folders around to the gathered agents, sliding the last one in the general direction of the farthest end of the table.

Neal reached out, snagging the folder just before it went over the edge. _Honestly, he wasn't even sure what he was doing here. Peter was barely speaking to him, and the other agents were following his lead. He'd tried as hard as he could since Vincent Adler's death and the explosion at the warehouse to show that he was still capable of, and interested in, being a contributing member of the team. But even though Peter had yet to turn up any evidence that Neal had stolen the Nazi treasure – and since he HAD NOT DONE IT there wouldn't be any evidence – the frosty atmosphere continued._

"Medicare fraud," Peter continued, switching on the projector. Photos of two people, a man and a woman, appeared on the screen. "Susan Bolen and Wendell Yates, both physicians, though not licensed in New York." He clicked the remote and the photo changed to one of an old, almost derelict-looking building. "They have a so-called clinic called Medical Now on the fifth floor here. On paper, it looks like they're do-gooders, serving the poor and downtrodden."

"I take it the paper looks better than the reality," Diana commented, flipping through her copy.

Peter nodded. "We have a couple of witnesses who have come forward with some interesting stories. Bolen and Yates allegedly send out 'sweepers' to the shelters and homeless camps, looking for anyone with a Medicare card. These people are then transported to the clinic where exams – usually consisting of a few questions – are performed. The clinic then bills Medicare for office visits, lab work, x-rays, and all manner of diagnostic tests." He clicked the remote again and images of bills appeared, with a bottom line of thousands of dollars.

"Do we have any idea how many people they see at this clinic?" Jones asked.

The screen changed again, showing a surveillance shot of the clinic entrance. "A team watched the building for four hours yesterday." Peter pointed at a white van that was parked in front. "They counted eight vans like this one, with an average of seven 'patients' in each van." He grabbed a couple of plastic evidence envelopes and slid them down the table. "Each patient receives one of these just for coming in and filling out the paperwork."

One of the envelopes slid almost to the end of the table and Neal idly picked it up, looking at the hundred dollar bill it held. He'd already skimmed the whole case file, and it wasn't like Peter actually wanted his opinion on anything these days anyway, so this was at least something to look at. He spun his chair halfway toward the window, holding the envelope up to the morning sun…

Suddenly he sat up straighter, holding the envelope higher. _Wow – he'd heard about this, but actually seeing it…_

"Something you'd like to share, Caffrey?"

_Caffrey._ Neal turned back to the group slowly, staring up at Peter. "Maybe," he said. "Has this been checked for prints?"

Peter scowled, as if trying to figure out what angle Neal might be playing. Finally, he shook his head. "Why?"

Neal got up and grabbed a tissue from a box on the side table. Opening the bag carefully, he used the tissue to pull the bill out and walked to the front of the room, holding it in front of the projector light. "Do you see those slight shadows in the printing?"

Peter leaned in closer, studying the bill. "Yeah, I see it. What would do that?"

"This used to be a five dollar bill."

Diana was on her feet, coming to look over Neal's shoulder. "How is that possible?"

"I've heard about this," Neal said. "The counterfeiters take real money, low denominations, and bleach the bills. Then they get reprinted as higher denominations. That way the bills will always feel authentic, because it's real treasury stock being used. And you have to look pretty close to see the shadowing."

"So you've seen this before?" Peter asked.

Neal shook his head slowly. _He really didn't much care for Peter's tone…_ "No, only heard about it. The only time I've been involved in counterfeiting was a few weeks ago in the operation with Ford and Ganz. From what I have heard though, this is trickier, trying to print cleanly on the smaller sheet."

"But they don't have to steal treasury stock," Jones pointed out. "Easier in that way."

"Sure," Neal agreed. "Fairly low cash outlay, getting the smaller bills. The ink isn't as hard to come by as the paper. And if there's a misprint, they can always just bleach it out again. At least until the paper finally gives out."

"So now we have Medicare fraud _and_ counterfeiting," Diana said. "This just got more fun."

Peter reached for the bill, holding it with the tissue as he motioned for one of the agents to pass the evidence bag down. "Jones, call our contacts at Treasury and the Secret Service again. We'll need to brief them in. Diana, check with NYPD. I want a list of all of the homeless camps they know of. The rest of you, get on the shelters. I want some facts and figures on how many people we're talking about here before we try for a warrant on Medical Now. We'll meet again at three o'clock and discuss strategy." He sealed the evidence bag, turned off the projector, and walked out of the room.

Neal stood where he was, watching the agent leave. _A lead like this and Peter would still barely even acknowledge him…_

"Good catch," Diana said softly.

"Yeah," Jones agreed. "Complicates things, but good catch."

"Thanks." Neal sighed, looking into the next office. "And thanks for actually speaking to me."

Diana looked into Peter's office too, and then back at Neal. "It's… kind of complicated right now."

"Complicated?" Neal ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Diana, I did _not_ steal that Nazi treasure. And I did not arrange for it to be stolen." _And he still hadn't figured out who __had__ done the job, and left him the key…_

_Nor had he figured out what he was going to do with the riches._

"For what it's worth, I believe you," she said. "And Peter _wants_ to."

"He has a funny way of showing it," Neal said. "He'll barely even look at me, let alone talk to me."

"There's a lot of pressure coming down from above," Jones said. "Department of Justice is involved, Hughes is taking a lot of heat. Homeland Security has their fingers in it too, since Adler snuck back into the country undetected."

"Just give it a little time, Neal," Diana counseled. "If nothing else shows up to tie you to the theft…"

"There can't _be_ anything else," he insisted. "I didn't do it!" He took a deep breath, held it a moment, and let it out. "But thank you for saying you believe me. I appreciate it."

Jones clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a light push toward the door. "It'll work out," he said. "Come on, I'm sure Treasury will be glad to know you've found another counterfeiting scheme."

"Oh, not the Men in Black bobsled team again…"

* * *

_Nothing like a little counterfeiting to get things stirred up…_

The office was awash in activity, and visitors – mostly of the black-suited, unsmiling, government types. Neal had repeated his discovery several times, always to a new audience of grim bureaucrats. They asked a lot of questions – repeated a lot of questions – and gave no indication whether they believed him on anything or not.

_At least no one, not even Peter, had actually accused him of producing the counterfeit bills…_

_Yet._

Other information started to come in. They had a rough map of all the known homeless encampments in the city, with agents sent out to canvas the camps. Other agents were at the shelters and soup kitchens, showing the photos of Bolen and Yates. And a third group of agents was working the banks, trying to track any unusual withdrawals of large quantities of low denomination bills.

And even with all of the activity going on, Neal found himself without an assignment. When he wasn't answering questions from the FBI, Treasury, Secret Service, and Homeland Security, he was sitting at his desk, watching everyone else work.

In fact, he'd been told to just wait, do nothing…

_Which was never something he'd been very good at._

The number of agents, from White Collar and other units, out in the field actually worked to his advantage now. There were only a few still in the office on the twenty-first floor…

_In fact, it was a perfect number to volunteer to get coffee for. Enough so it would seem he was doing a very nice deed, but not so many that it would be hard to accomplish._

A plan in place, he roamed among the desks in the bullpen, taking orders. And then, smile in place, fedora on his head, he promised to be back shortly – in a voice carefully modulated to carry enough for certain people to hear.

Once outside the confines of the federal building he stepped into an alcove carved into the front of a neighboring deli and pulled out his cell phone. "Hey, Moz… No, we're still playing the silent game… Well, he hasn't had me arrested yet… Moz, there's nothing to find… I know it would have been a great con, but I didn't do it!... Mozzie… Right, I'll call my lawyer. Listen, have you heard anything about the report?... Still a few days. Okay, yeah, not much choice but to wait… No, I'm on a coffee run… Believe it or not, I volunteered this time. Sitting there with Peter glaring holes in my back is getting a little old… Right, I'll see you later. And Moz? Maybe you could bring a bottle of wine for a change."

Neal ended the call and stepped back out into the pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk. The coffee shop was two more doors down.

* * *

"Where's Caffrey?"

Noah Gregg, recently conscripted from Organized Crime to help track down leads on the Medicare fraud, looked around nervously, hoping that Burke was talking to someone else. Unfortunately, there was no one else in close proximity. "He, uh, went out to get coffee for us."

"Who talked him into that?"

"I think he volunteered, sir."

_Neal volunteered…_ "How long ago was this?" Peter demanded.

"Not long," Gregg stammered. "Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, tops."

Peter swore softly to himself before addressing Gregg again. "Do you know how to log into the U.S. Marshals' tracking system?"

"No, sir. Never used it."

Peter sighed and moved to the terminal on the desk Gregg was using. "I'll get it…" His voice trailed off as the doors opened and Neal moved slowly into the bullpen area, balancing two trays full of cups.

"Coffee's here," Neal announced, carefully setting his load down on his desk. He started to hand out the drinks, matching the faces with the names he had written on the cups at the shop.

"_You_ volunteered for a coffee run," Peter said, coming up to the desk as the other agents moved away.

"Well, I seem to be excluded from a number of things these days," Neal replied. "This was at least something to do." He picked up one of the two remaining cups and handed it over. "Here, I got you a latte."

Peter reached for the cup automatically, then stood there, just staring at it.

"It's not poisoned, Peter," Neal said, his voice betraying some of the pain he felt. "Do you want me to take a drink first?"

"No." Peter shook his head, staring at the cup. "Thanks. But the Treasury agents have some more questions for you."

"Well, that sounds like fun." Neal set his hat on the desk and picked up his own mocha. "Let's do it."

* * *

"Nickel for your thoughts."

Peter's head jerked up as he felt El's fingers rubbing his neck. "A nickel? What happened to a penny?"

"Inflation." Her hands moved down across his shoulders. "Peter, what's wrong?"

"Oh, it's this whole thing with Neal. I really thought we were getting to a place where we could trust each other."

"And you're so _sure_ he did this?"

"El, I told you about the piece of the painting I found."

"And you told me he said all of his paintings had been stolen."

"Oh, yeah, that's what he _said._"

Her fingers worked the base of his neck and then she leaned down, resting her head on his shoulder. "He looked you in the eye and said he didn't set up the explosion or the theft," she said softly.

Peter sighed and leaned back into her arms. "I know. But El…"

"Peter, we're talking about Neal. Our friend. The man who gave up a ring worth over two million dollars to save your life."

"And the man who admitted to trying to swindle Vincent Adler out of millions a few years back." _But even as he said the words, he realized his certainty over Neal's guilt was wavering._

"Oh, Peter…"

"We have a big case right now," he said, standing up and taking her into his arms. "When this is over… we'll see."

…


	2. Exploration

"All right, people, listen up." Peter stepped up to the front of the room and rapped his knuckles on the table for attention. "We have nearly two dozen witness statements about the Medicare fraud going on at Medical Now. The US Attorney's office has issued warrants to search the premises, and arrest doctors Bolen and Yates." He slid the paperwork across to Jones. "You and Diana will take a team and serve these warrants at the clinic."

Jones picked up the documents and nodded. "Right."

"The search warrant lays out what we're looking for. But mostly we want evidence of any other parties involved in the fraud," Peter continued, glancing at some notes. "The preliminary estimate is that this little operation alone has bilked Medicare for nearly twenty million dollars."

"What about the counterfeiting?" Diana asked. "Any leads on where that's being done yet?"

"A few possibilities, but nothing definitive. I'll be coordinating with Treasury to secure warrants and search the properties we've identified." Peter pointed at the warrants. "The location of the printing operation is also covered in there, so any evidence you find, you call me right away." He looked around at the group of agents gathered. "You all have your assignments. If you're going to the clinic, meet up with Jones and Barrigan down in the garage. If you're on the counterfeiting detail, hang loose. The first warrants should be coming through any time now. We'll start sending teams out soon. Questions?" He looked around the room, but no hands were raised. "All right, everyone stay safe, and let's get this done."

The room began to clear, and Peter paused to gather up his files. He turned to head for his office, but stopped when he saw Neal standing by the door. "You have a question?"

Neal nodded, stepping back into the room. "I don't have an assignment," he said. "I'd like to go with Jones and Diana."

Peter shook his head. "No, I want you here. Treasury may have more questions."

"I've already told them everything I know – several times."

"And maybe they'll want to hear it again."

"I can help review the records…"

"I said no. You're staying here," Peter said, his tone allowing for no further argument. He picked up the files and walked into his office, closing the door behind him…

And leaving Neal standing alone in the conference room.

* * *

_Rearrange all his paperclips – check. Add some rubber bands to his ball – check. Clean every speck of dust off of his computer monitor – check. Turn every spare piece of paper into origami – check. Sketch the pair of birds nesting on the ledge outside the corner windows – check. Drink more bad coffee than could ever be healthy – check._

Neal sighed and turned his eyes to the upper level again. Hughes was still in his office, talking to some of the Treasury agents. A few of the other agents from other agencies were gathered in the conference room. And Peter…

Peter was alone in his office, talking on the phone.

_Yeah, this had been an exciting day… and it was only a little after one in the afternoon._

There weren't even enough agents left to make it worthwhile volunteering to go get coffee again. Granted, he could go for himself, but it looked better to be magnanimous.

No, everyone pretty much had an assignment – except him.

Maybe he should go have some lunch – alone. He might even have time to stop by the warehouse…

_No, better to stay away for a bit. Too many visits would look suspicious if – when – Peter looked at his tracking data._

Too bad he didn't dare do research on the art here at the office. There was still so much history to find. He wanted to know where each piece had come from. But it would be too easy for someone to track his search history here - and too obvious if he tried to hide it. And his thumbs got sore trying to do a lot of searching using the tiny keyboard on his phone.

The last couple of junior agents headed toward the elevators, apparently off to lunch. The Treasury agents from the conference room followed, and Neal suppressed a smile. _He was picturing the men in black stuffed into a bobsled, speeding down a snow-covered mountain…_

He waited until the agents were safely in the elevator and on their way downstairs before he got up from his desk, stretched, and reached for his hat. He was just starting to put the fedora on his head when Peter's office door flew open and the agent came hurrying out, pulling his suit coat on as he did.

Peter leaned into Hughes' open office door, exchanged a few words, and then stopped at the top of the steps, staring at the empty bullpen. His eyes finally reached where Neal was standing, and then he started down the stairs, hurrying toward the doors.

"Caffrey, you're with me," he said, not breaking stride.

Neal couldn't quite hide his surprise. "Really?" But Peter didn't stop to answer or explain, so Neal flipped his hat onto his head and hurried out into the elevator lobby.

There were already a couple of agents in the car when the doors opened, so they rode down to the garage in silence. Peter strode off ahead when they reached the lower level, while Neal waited for the others to vacate the car before he could get out. By the time he got to the car, Peter had already started the engine, and Neal scrambled to get his seatbelt fastened as the agent pulled out of the parking space much faster than normal.

"So, where are we going?"

Peter negotiated the tight turn toward the exit before answering. "Jones called. They found another address hidden in some documents at the clinic, one we didn't have before. Everyone else is out on assignment…"

"Except the token ex-con who's been twiddling his thumbs all day."

Peter exited the ramp and merged into traffic, hands tight on the wheel. "What is it you think you should be doing?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe something useful."

"Treasury might have needed…"

"Oh, come on. They already had everything I could give them. You just don't trust me to do anything." Neal's voice trailed off as he said the words and he sighed, turning to look out the window.

"I'm not sure what I'm supposed to trust you with at this point," Peter said, his voice tight.

"I passed your polygraph."

"You've faked that before. With the FAA recording stolen from Sara."

"That was only a voice stress analyzer," Neal pointed out. "Those are easy to fake. Yours was a full polygraph." _And fortunately the analyst had only asked if he had stolen the treasure, or arranged to have it stolen, and not if he knew where it was now…_

"Polygraphs have been faked before."

"Not by me." _Which was true, because he'd never been foolish enough to agree to take one before – and he'd only done this one after being assured it was a limited scope._ "And I still have not lied to you," he added softly.

Peter opened his mouth as if to say something, but then bit back the words with a sigh. There was silence for a few tense seconds before he finally spoke. "We have a case to solve. The rest… the rest we'll deal with later."

* * *

The building looked like anything _but_ a hotspot of illegal activity when they pulled up in front. In fact, if anything, it looked abandoned. It was an old, brick building, eight stories tall, and it had obviously seen better times. Most of the windows on the lowers floors were broken out, and weeds had overrun the steps.

"Did Jones say how this address came up?" Neal asked as he studied the derelict building.

Peter shook his head. "No, just that it came up in a search of the records, and we didn't have it on our list before."

"So what's the plan?"

"The plan is, I'm going in to check things out. You're staying here in the car."

"Peter…"

"I'm serious, Neal. Hughes told me I couldn't come without taking someone along, and you were the only one available. But you're not going into that building."

"I don't think that's what Hughes had in mind."

"Well, it's what I have in mind." Peter opened his door and started to get out. "I mean it. _Stay_ in the car."

He got out, closing the door behind him, and starting for the building.

Neal could only watch, and fume, as Peter climbed the steps to the entrance, opened the door, and disappeared inside.

* * *

The inside of the building was littered with paper and leaves and other debris that had blown in through the broken windows. In places, where the wind came through, it had actually drifted, almost like snow. All in all, it was hard to tell if anyone had been here recently, because the next stiff breeze would rearrange the clutter and hide all traces of human passage.

Peter made his way down the first floor hallway, checking each room. Most of the doors were off their hinges, making that easy.

_This probably wasn't the best plan, checking out the building by himself. But he just wasn't ready to be working so closely with Neal. Besides, the consultant wasn't armed, so really, what help would he be if trouble broke out?_

_Except to be there, a witness just in case trouble __did__ break out…_

Yeah, probably not his smartest move, being here alone. But he had committed himself to the path now, so he pressed ahead.

The first floor was empty, so he moved into the stairwell and headed up to the second floor.

* * *

Neal stared at the tracking anklet, picturing a pair of scissors in his hand. _He could cut it so easily, be gone before anyone even started looking. Because he had aliases Peter and the FBI never found out about, perfect IDs that would stand up to any scrutiny. And now he had quite possibly the world's greatest treasure – ever – at his fingertips…_

He sighed, leaning back against the headrest. This was almost as bad as when Kimberly Rice had sent him out to babysit the car during the Wilkes case.

No, actually this was worse. He had no history with Rice. But with Peter…

To make matters worse, the car was getting very stuffy as the sun moved across the sky. The front windows were partially down, so he probably wasn't going to die of heat stroke any time soon, but still, it was getting very uncomfortable.

_And really, if Peter wasn't there, how would he know how stuffy the interior of the car was getting…_

That left two options. He could hotwire the car, get the engine started, run the air conditioning. _Which was probably not a good idea – federal agents probably didn't appreciate their vehicles being treated like that._

So, that left the second option – getting out of the car. After all, his deal didn't include suffocating in a hot car.

He got out, stretching as he closed the door. Since he _was_ out – saving his life, and all – it wouldn't hurt to look around a little.

Wandering down toward the corner, he studied not only the building itself, but also the surrounding area. The nearby lots had already been razed, full of weeds and the remnants of structures that were apparently long gone. One lot on the next block had a fence around it, the wire bent and twisted.

He reached the corner, looking behind the target building. The next street had a few buildings that were apparently still being used. They were in better repair, and a few vehicles were parked nearby.

He started to turn back, and then stopped as something caught his attention. Turning the corner, he walked a little closer.

_Wires, from the building on the next street, leading to the one Peter was in. Providing electricity, unless he was very much mistaken – which wasn't very likely. And there was no reason to run electricity to an abandoned building…_

_Unless someone had moved in._

Of course, it was possible the wires had been run a long time ago, and were no longer carrying current. And really, he wasn't interested in climbing up to touch one to find out.

No, he'd just go with the assumption that the wires were live – and Peter had walked into way more than the agent had anticipated.

* * *

He had cleared three floors and moved to the fourth floor when he heard it. It was a rhythmic sound, definitely not something that occurred in nature.

_It reminded him a lot of the printing press Neal had identified by sound during their first case together…_

Peter paused at the entrance to the fourth floor corridor, listening. The sound seemed too faint to be coming from this floor, so he slipped back into the stairwell, heading up another floor.

* * *

He hadn't quite made it back to the car when the van came into sight, coming toward him, fast. Ducking quickly to one side, Neal hit the ground, sliding behind some weed-covered chunks of concrete.

The van pulled around to the far side of the building and stopped. Three men got out, two of them with visible gun holsters. They pulled some boxes out of the van and then disappeared into a side door.

_Yeah, that pretty much killed the theory that nothing was going on here._

* * *

He was on the sixth floor when a new sound intruded. The freight elevator down at the other end of the hall started up, the ancient works rumbling to life.

The noise partially masked the rhythmic sound he had been tracking, forcing him to make a quick survey of the rooms on that floor. But everything was still empty.

The light changed at the end of the hall, flickering as the elevator car passed the outer grate, still on its way up.

Peter slipped back into the stairwell and headed to the seventh floor.

* * *

It wasn't hard to find the door on the back side of the building, and the biggest challenge with the lock was simply the amount of rust coating the mechanism. Once inside, there was just a short corridor until he reached the main hallway.

He could hear the freight elevator rumbling at one end, though it sounded as if the car was on one of the upper floors. That left the stairwell at the other end as his option.

Neal slipped into the hallway, making his way carefully toward the stairs.

* * *

Peter ducked into the closest room as he heard the elevator rumble to a stop on the eighth floor.

He was sure now that the other sound he had been following was, indeed, a printing press. And he had definitely reached the right floor. There seemed to be a large area toward the back of the building where the sound was coming from.

He flattened himself against the wall just inside the door as the inner gate was raised in the elevator. The outer door creaked open and three men came out. They passed by where he was hidden, heading toward the room where he suspected he might find his counterfeiting operation.

_Three men arriving now, most likely more already there running the press…_

This was more than he should be doing alone, and he knew it. His best move was to get back to the stairway, make his way outside, and call for backup. Hopefully the agents who were raiding the Medical Now clinic were coming free by now and could head this way.

_Except he still hadn't actually seen anything he could point to as illegal activity._

The footsteps had faded as Peter moved cautiously out into the hallway again. He'd just take a quick look, and then get out.

* * *

Neal ran up another flight of stairs, moving cautiously out into the corridor on the third floor. He could hear the thumping of a press coming from a higher floor, which was probably where Peter was – though he had to check the other floors on the way. But there was no sign of activity here, so he hurried back to the stairwell and continued to climb.

* * *

Peter reached the short corridor heading toward the back of the building, stopping at the corner to take a deep breath. He breathed in again, held it, and popped his head quickly around the corner.

Nothing.

He couldn't really hear anything over the sound of what he was positive now was a printing press. Unfortunately, he wasn't going to get a warrant based only on that sound.

Keeping his back to the wall, he worked slowly toward the door on one side of the corridor. It was open, so hopefully he could get a quick look and get out again, unseen.

* * *

The fourth floor was all quiet and Neal ran back to the stairs, heading up.

* * *

Gun ready, Peter crouched down by the door and peeked around the corner. There were some boxes partially obstructing his view, but he shifted slightly and then he saw it. The printing press was running, spitting out bills. Clothesline was strung around the room, with drying notes hung up. Two men were clearing some of the line, packing up bills into a box.

And one of the men turned, spotting him. There was a shout, and the first shot rang out as Peter was bringing his gun to bear…

* * *

Neal pushed open the door on the fifth floor and was about to step into the hall when the popping sounds reached his ears.

_Gunfire!_

He turned back to the stairs, heading up.

* * *

Peter returned fire, even as he tried to retreat. The building hadn't been designed to provide cover for a gunfight and, stripped as it was, it was even less welcoming.

He fired off several shots as he ran for the main hall, and then he dove to one side, away from the stairs. For a moment he thought he had made it…

_The pain ripped through his leg and he stumbled…_


	3. Escape?

Neal cracked open the stairway door on the eighth floor, peering out. He was just in time to see Peter come around the corner, and then grab for his right leg. Blood spattered behind him as the agent dove into the next empty room.

Taking advantage of the slight delay before the shooters showed up, he crouched low and ran to the first room past the stairs, ducking inside just as a couple of men showed up at the corner, leading the way with their guns.

They were only looking in the direction Peter had gone, so he took the opportunity to move to the next room.

The men at the corner fired a few shots down the hall, in the general direction of where Peter was hiding. Behind them, he could hear other men shouting, and the sound of heavy objects being moved.

A few more shots, and he took a chance, moving silently down the hall to another room, closer to the corridor, and to Peter. His hand reached for his cell phone – _call the police, or the Bureau?_

But then the shooting started up again in earnest as the gunmen moved closer, and he saw Peter lean into the hall, firing back.

Neal looked around the room, searching for anything…

_There!_

It was a length of pipe, the kind that electrical wiring was often run through. _Probably some thieves in stripping copper wire…_

He picked it up, breathing hard, waiting. _Waiting for what? A length of pipe against guns. This was crazy…_

But then he heard it – the empty click as the hammer of the gun hit against an empty chamber.

_Unfortunately, it was Peter's gun that was empty._

That did, however, mean that the gunmen were intent only on Peter's location. Hefting the pipe in his right hand, Neal took a deep breath and ran into the hallway.

The element of surprise worked, and he was behind the two men before they even registered his presence. He swung the pipe like a baseball bat, swinging for the fence. It connected, and the men staggered…

But they moved apart, and one of them was already bringing his gun up again. Abandoning the attack, Neal ran for the next room and dove in, even as shots sounded behind him.

"Peter, it's me," he called quickly…

And then he was on his feet again, going to Peter's side. The agent was slumped against the wall, a new clip out but struggling to get the gun loaded. And there was blood…

_Well, there would be more blood if he didn't do something._ Grabbing the gun and the clip, Neal slammed it home and went to the open doorway. He leaned out, staying low, and fired.

_And oh god, one of the men fell…_

The other man ducked back and Neal took advantage of the break to look at the room. There was no actual door, nothing to close, to provide any cover. But there was a door in the side wall, leading to the adjoining room…

It opened at his touch, and he hurried back to Peter. "Come on," he said, sliding a shoulder under the agent's arm. "We need to move."

* * *

Peter watched, seeing things almost in slow motion, as Neal fired at the gunmen, and then opened the side door. When the younger man came to him, trying to help him up, he did his best to assist. _But his leg refused to cooperate, and he nearly fell. _

He felt Neal's arm tighten around him, and he gritted his teeth, doing his best to provide some momentum toward the next room.

Between them, they got there, and Neal slammed the door.

But they were still moving, another door ahead of them. Peter could feel the burning in his leg, and yet he couldn't actually feel it under him, and he knew he was falling…

Somehow, he stayed on his feet. And while Neal worked to open the next door, Peter reached for his phone.

_But his fingers were slick with blood, and the phone fell from his hand as Neal pulled him through into the next room. Shots rang out behind them, and he knew there was no going back…_

* * *

There was really only one choice, as far as Neal could see – and it wasn't a good one. But when presented with a single choice, you just had to make the best of it.

The freight elevator door stood open, holding the car a few yards down the main hallway. An elevator of any kind was not a preferable escape route – it was too confined. And an ancient freight elevator was most _definitely_ not preferred. But the stairs were at the other end of the hall, and there was no way he could think of to get there, especially not with an injured man.

If he could get Peter into the elevator, they'd at least have some protection. And really, freight elevators weren't hard to manipulate. He could probably stop it somewhere, make the call for help.

Cautiously, he moved to the doorway by the main hall, peeking out…

And immediately pulling his head back as shots rang out.

_Yeah, great plan so far._

He could hear the men calling for backup as he pulled Peter closer to the door. If this was going to work, they would have to move fast.

"I'm going to return fire," he said softly. "Can you use your leg at all?"

He watched as Peter struggled to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall. But there was also a resolve in the agent's eyes as he took a deep breath and nodded. "I think so."

"All right," Neal said, setting himself near the door frame. "We're going for the elevator."

Peter nodded his understanding, and Neal took a deep breath… and another one… and then rolled to his side, firing into the hallway.

The men at the other end scrambled back, and Neal jumped to his feet, pulling Peter's arm over his shoulder. _It was now or never…_

_And he never thought that hallway could be so long…_

Neal dropped Peter in the corner of the elevator car, a little harder than he would have preferred, but there wasn't much time. He could hear footsteps running hard, coming closer.

He slammed the outer gate shut, flipping the handle to lock it. There was a lever for the inner doors and he pulled it; the two sides moved together in agonizingly slow motion. And then he stabbed at the button for the ground floor.

_Yeah, great escape plan – stuck in a slow freight elevator, with armed men after them. The stairs would have been much faster, if only Peter hadn't been hurt…_

The elevator lurched, starting down at an agonizingly slow speed. And the men after them weren't hurt, which meant they could be downstairs much faster. _With any luck, the men would be more interested in just escaping, and saving themselves. But the way his luck had been running lately, that wasn't something he was willing to count on._

Neal looked down at his right hand, still holding Peter's gun. He slid the clip out, revealing only one bullet left. "Do you have another clip?" he asked, even as something heavy hit the doors that had just closed above them.

Peter seemed to hesitate a moment, but then he reached under his holster and produced a new clip, tossing it over. Neal snagged it out of the air and pressed it into the pistol. It wasn't a moment too soon as the doors above were suddenly forced open and a gun came through, held by an unseen gunman. Neal threw himself back as the shots came, rolled, came to one knee, raised the gun and fired back.

There was a muted grunt, and a _thud_, and then silence.

The silence didn't last long though. There were voices, shouting something, the sound too muffled to understand the words. More footsteps, what might have been gunshots, and then more silence…

Neal looked up at the indicator light, cursing softly to himself. They had only made it down three floors. _He might actually have been able to carry Peter down the stairs faster, especially the way he could feel his adrenaline pumping. It was just like during the best jobs he had ever pulled, the thrill of the chase had him feeling hyper-aware and strong…_

The indicator light showed the number four, they were halfway down…

_BOOOOOOMMMMMM!_

He was knocked off balance as the elevator car twisted. The wooden slats that made up the back wall cracked, and he stumbled toward them. The car jerked again, and he lost whatever remained of his ability to stay upright, falling toward the back…

…


	4. Trapped

Peter felt the car shudder as the frame seemed to twist. There was a loud cracking sound as the slats making up the back wall cracked under the pressure, the lower parts now sticking out like pikes. The car jerked again, and then it stopped moving, the floor canted at what he figured to be a thirty degree angle.

He groaned, holding his leg, feeling the blood flowing harder after the jostling. Eyes closed against the pain, he heard, rather than saw, Neal hit the back wall.

Forcing himself to look, Peter watched helplessly as Neal crumpled to the floor with a gasp.

"Neal!"

For a long, frightening moment, the younger man didn't move. But then he slowly rolled onto his back, right arm cradled over his abdomen.

"Are you all right?"

Neal nodded slowly, easing himself into a sitting position, his back against the cracked rear wall. "Yeah," he whispered, though the pained look on his face belied that assessment. "I think I just got the breath knocked out of me." He sat still for a moment, just focusing on breathing. "What about you?"

"Nothing new," Peter replied. "I'm just bleeding harder."

Neal struggled to his knees and crawled over. Peter watched him closely, his eyes fixed on the gun Neal still grasped.

The attention wasn't lost on Neal, who sighed and shook his head. "What, first you think I blew up a warehouse, and now you think I'm going to shoot you?"

"No!" The answer came automatically as Peter shook his head. "No, I don't. It's just, seeing you with a gun…"

Neal flipped the weapon around, holding out the grip toward the agent. "Believe me, you can have it back."

Peter took the gun, and then gasped as Neal's fingers probed the wound on his leg. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then he heard the sound of fabric ripping. Looking down again, he could see that Neal had torn away the leg of his pants. _There was so much blood…_

Neal was pulling his belt out of the loops. "I'm going to put this around your leg," he said, sliding his hand under Peter's thigh. He pulled the tip of the belt around and slid it into the buckle. "Try to stop the bleeding."

Peter nodded, gritting his teeth as the leather pulled tight around his leg. But he could feel the throbbing ease slightly as the blood flow was decreased.

Neal stripped off his suit coat, shook his head sadly at the damage it had received, and then proceeded to tear out the lining. "We'll need to loosen that periodically," he said, indicating the belt. "I'll get your leg bandaged too. Hopefully that'll help." He started to rip the lining into strips. "Do you have your phone?"

Peter started to reach into his pocket, but then stopped and shook his head. "I dropped it back up there. My fingers were slick with the blood, and it slipped."

Neal reached back for his jacket, sliding his hand into the inside pocket. He pulled out his phone, and then swore softly. "Damn."

Before Peter could even ask, Neal held the phone out toward him – and the reason for the swearing was clear. The screen had cracked, and some of the inner workings were visible.

"I must have hit that cracked board right on the phone," Neal said, as he started to wrap one of the fabric strips around the wound on Peter's leg.

Peter was looking at the top of the elevator car and the escape hatch. "Think you can get out?"

Neal looked up as well, considered the question for a moment, and then slowly shook his head. "That's got to be ten feet. If I was a seven foot NBA player with a three foot vertical jump, maybe. But I'm not, and I think maybe I cracked a couple of ribs."

Peter nodded, watching as Neal knotted the bandage on his leg. "Well, someone must have heard that explosion. Emergency services will be here soon."

Neal slumped back against the wall of the car and closed his eyes. "Yeah, they'll be here."

* * *

Jones was the first off the elevator and he pushed the glass door open, holding it for the others. "Take everything up to the conference room," he directed, as other agents filed in, all of them carrying boxes.

The next elevator car arrived and Diana stepped out, pushing a loaded handcart. Two other agents carried more boxes.

"The van was pulling in when I got on the elevator," Diana said. "They'll bring the rest of the evidence up shortly."

"I think we have enough to get started on," Jones replied.

"Oh, yeah." Diana paused, looking at the upper level. "Looks like Peter's gone."

"Probably checking out that other address we found."

"Right. Wonder if Neal's with him – he doesn't seem to be here either."

Before Jones could say anything, Hughes stepped out onto the walkway. "Anything new?"

Jones shook his head. "We seized lots of records. But so far that one address is the only new information we have to go on."

Hughes nodded. "Burke went to check it out."

"Alone?" Diana asked.

"I told him to take someone along," the senior agent replied. "I think Caffrey was the only one here, so I guess it was him. Anyway, let me know what you find."

Hughes disappeared back into his office as Jones shared a glance with Diana. "Peter and Neal together – should be interesting after this week."

"Maybe it's just what they needed," she suggested. "Get back into the old swing of things."

Jones nodded and started for the stairs. "Let's hope."

* * *

"So what is it with you and explosions?"

Neal gave a short laugh, and immediately regretted it as his ribs protested. "Believe it or not, that's a fairly recent thing. I don't like explosives. They're messy, kind of like guns."

"You handled that gun pretty well for someone who doesn't like them."

"I don't like the idea of being dead more than I don't like guns." Neal turned slightly to look at Peter. "I don't like the idea of you being dead either," he added softly.

Peter just nodded. "Thank you," he whispered.

"You're welcome." Neal paused, shaking his head. "This isn't quite the way I had it planned."

"Yeah, the rescue would have gone better without the explosion."

Neal shrugged and gave a half nod. "For the record, I did not blow up the plane, or Adler's warehouse, or…" He paused, looking at Peter again. "Did you find anything here before the shooting started?"

Peter nodded. "I saw a press, and some bills hung up to dry. It looked a lot like what you and Ford had set up at the Lenox."

"So they were doing the counterfeiting here."

"Looks like it."

"And when they got found out they blew it up?"

"I guess they didn't want to leave any evidence behind."

"Seems like overkill, especially since you were alone."

Peter shook his head slowly and reached out to put a hand on Neal's leg. "I wasn't alone."

* * *

The building was mostly brick and concrete, not materials friendly to a fire. Furnishings had long ago disappeared, either taken by the tenants when the building was abandoned, or appropriated by looters during the intervening years. But the counterfeiting operation had introduced flammable goods – the paper that the currency was printed on, the ink with all of its chemicals, the bleach and other compounds used to alter the bills.

The explosion lifted the floor on the eighth level, and the shock wave weakened the whole structural support. When the dust settled, so did the concrete slab that had been the eighth floor on the east side of the building. The chemicals spilled out of their containers, leaving a trail down to the basement.

All it took was a spark to catch on one of the newly printed bills…

* * *

"Peter's still not answering?"

Diana shook her head. "It's going straight to voicemail." She ended the call attempt and went back to her contact list. "I'll try Caffrey…" but a moment later she was shaking her head again. "Voicemail there too," she said.

"I don't like that," Jones said. "One of them should be answering. This is too much like last week."

One of the junior agents came in just then. "Hey, did you hear there was another explosion?" she asked, reaching for the remote to the display screen. She powered it on, setting the input to the television feed. A news report showing an old building, black smoke billowing out of the lower windows, came on. "Weird, huh? First the one last week, and now this?"

"See if they give an address," Jones said softly, turning for the door. "I'll pull up Neal's tracking data. I have a bad feeling about this."

"Not a fan of coincidences myself," Diana agreed, reaching to turn up the volume.

…


	5. Family Matters

The sirens died off, though an occasional fire klaxon still sounded.

"Sounds like the fire trucks are here," Peter said. He shifted slightly, stifling a groan as the fiery pain returned to his leg.

"Hopefully they don't think the place is abandoned too."

"Yeah." _And he knew better than to make assumptions like that._ "The car's out front."

"Yeah."

"So why did you come in?"

"You mean, why did I disobey your orders and leave the car?"

_Yeah, he probably deserved that shot…_ "No, I mean what brought you inside," Peter said softly. "You were pretty mad at me."

Neal sighed and stared down at the tilted floor of the car. "A van pulled up," he started. "Three men got out, and at least two of them were armed. The place obviously wasn't as abandoned as it had seemed. And I didn't even know if you'd found anyone already in here." He paused and looked up. "Yes, I was mad at you. But I was still your only backup. I didn't have a choice."

There was silence then, broken only by the muted sounds of the emergency crews outside, and the creaking of the old building as it struggled to stand after the blast.

Neal finally spoke. "How did we get to this, Peter? After everything we've been through? I mean, I know you'll never completely trust me, but for things to be broken this badly…"

For a long moment, Peter couldn't answer. "I heard Adler accuse you, so I guess that was in my mind. Then I found that piece of your painting."

"All I knew at the time was that I had nearly died, the warehouse had exploded – I honestly thought all of that priceless art was gone. It made me sick just to think about, and then to be accused…"

"It was that piece of the Chrysler Building painting, it just seemed so clear."

"But I didn't know about that until the next day. You showed it to me, when you demanded that I take the polygraph."

"Neal…"

"I just don't understand, Peter. We almost died together on the bridge of that U-boat. We were together the first time I ever saw that treasure. We almost died again at that dry dock. After that, I was at the office – with you – for several hours. Then I was at your house – with you, drinking your wine and your coffee, talking about how you were the luckiest guy. A few hours later I was back at the office – with you." Neal paused, looking over at Peter. "Even if I had wanted to, how do you think I could have planned a job like that around the time I was with you?"

"I could have – _should_ have – handled it better," Peter admitted sighing. "I don't know if it's an excuse or not, but I had just killed a man," he continued, almost whispering. "All my years in the Bureau, all the training, and I still wasn't ready for that."

"I'm sorry you had to do that."

"I did what I had to do, Neal, and I know that. And I'm stuck seeing a Bureau shrink for the next six months to make sure."

"I thought the initial inquiry cleared you."

"The board agreed it was a justified shooting," Peter explained. "That's why I got my gun back. But they still require follow-up."

Neal leaned his head back against the wall. "I think I might have just killed someone too," he said softly. "Maybe more than one." He paused a moment, closing his eyes. "So will I get the shrink, or a new orange wardrobe for that?"

Peter reached slowly, hesitantly, for his partner's arm. "You saved my life – again. You won't be in trouble for the gun." And then more softly, he continued. "I'll see that you get the support you need."

Neal just nodded, and then pushed himself slowly to his knees. "I'm going to loosen the tourniquet for a minute," he said, reaching for the belt. "We can't cut off blood flow completely. But it's probably going to hurt when I open this."

Peter took a couple of deep breaths, bracing himself against the car walls as best he could before finally nodding.

_And 'hurt' didn't begin to describe the sensation when the belt was removed and the blood flowed through his wounded leg again…_

* * *

Diana maneuvered the car as close as she could get to the burning building. The flashing dash light – along with Jones leaning out of the window, holding his badge out – got them through as close as the battalion chief's car.

Jones was out of the car before it even came to a complete stop, hurrying to the closest firefighter. "Who's in charge?"

The man pointed down the line to a figure dressed in bright yellow emergency gear. "That's Chief Reynolds."

Jones hurried that way, with Diana falling in right behind him. "Chief Reynolds?" The man nodded, and Jones held out his badge. "FBI. Has anyone checked the inside of that building for survivors?"

Reynolds shook his head. "We have chemical fumes," he said. "That's what's causing that black smoke. I'm not sending any of my people into what's supposed to be an abandoned building until that's under control."

Diana pointed off to one side, where a lonely Taurus was parked. "That car belongs to our boss, Special Agent Peter Burke," she said. "And we have GPS tracking data that locates his partner inside that building."

"You're sure it's showing _inside_ the building?" the chief asked.

Jones nodded. "It's accurate within a few feet."

Reynolds considered that for a moment before nodding. "All right, let me check with my people on the front line. We'll get someone inside as soon as we can."

* * *

Neal tightened the belt again, and then wrapped another strip of the jacket lining around the wound. The bleeding did seem to have slowed, even with the tourniquet removed. _But there was still so much blood already on the floor…_

He sat down again, wrapping one arm across his abdomen as he moved and doing his best not to show the pain. _Definitely a couple of cracked ribs, but the fire in his gut was telling him there might be more involved._

They sat in silence for a moment before Peter finally coughed and then spoke. "After watching you shoot, I think you finally owe me the explanation of how you got so good with a gun."

"I already told you. I wanted to be like my dad – at least the hero dad my mom told me about. So I made it a point to get good with a gun."

"All by yourself?"

Neal considered that for a moment, closing his eyes as the memories came. "My mom wasn't good at being alone. I had several step-fathers over the years. Though, honestly, I'm not sure how many of the men she actually married."

"And I guess one of them liked guns?"

"Bob. He was a former Marine gunnery sergeant, so he knew his weapons. I was eleven when he came into the picture."

"So he's the one who taught you to shoot."

"Actually, a friend's father had already started to teach me. But Bob's idea of a perfect father and step-son outing was to head to the firing range. And as a gunnery sergeant, he expected perfection. If I shot well, I got a few words of praise, and maybe ice cream. If I didn't do well, I got his belt on my backside." Neal gave a short, sharp, humorless laugh. "It was great motivation."

"Neal, I'm sorry."

"No, it was a long time ago. And like I said, I got really good with a gun." He held his right hand out, staring at it. "I was already really good at art, Peter. Pretty much anything I could envision, I could make it happen on a sketchpad with a pencil, or on a canvas with paint. And I found I could apply the same thing to shooting."

"Envisioning it?"

"Yeah." Neal moved his fingers, as if closing them around an imaginary gun. "The gun became like the brush, an extension of my hand. The bullets were the paint, the target the canvas."

"So if you could see yourself hitting the target…"

"I hit it." Neal let his hand drop slowly. "I can still hit it. The principle doesn't change."

"So how long was Bob in the picture?"

Neal shrugged. "A couple of years."

"So, he beat you… that's why you don't like guns?"

"No. Like I said, he only beat me if I didn't do well. And I learned to shoot _really_ well."

"Then why?"

"Because of my dad."

"But if he died when you were two…"

Neal was shaking his head. "He didn't."

"Neal, you said…"

"I said I'd tell you what my mom told me. And that was the story, that he died when I was two, in a heroic shootout."

"Except he was a dirty cop. How did you find out?"

"It was a writing assignment in junior high – an essay on someone who was a hero in your life. And hey, all my life I'd heard that my dad was a hero, so I wanted to write about him." Neal paused, coughing as a wisp of black smoke filtered into the car. "Mom never wanted to talk about him, except for the story she told. But I figured a cop killed in a heroic shootout – there must be something in the newspapers. So I went to the library."

"And found the truth was something different," Peter said softly.

"Oh, yeah. There was a shootout all right – my dad just wasn't the hero. There was an armored car heist, and things went wrong. Really wrong. People died, including a young mother and her two year old son."

"Neal…"

"I don't know how many times I read it, Peter. And I just kept thinking, that could have been my mom, and me. I could never look at a gun the same way after that."

"But your dad _didn't_ die in the shootout?"

Neal shook his head slowly. "That part was actually a lie too," he said, his voice so soft he was almost whispering. "He was convicted of felony murder, sentenced to twenty-five to life. The last I knew, he was still in San Quentin. Of course, that was a couple of years ago. He could be out by now, or dead…"

Peter was silent for a long moment before finally speaking. "Do you want to know?"

"I'm honestly not sure."

Peter nodded, considering that. "What about your mom, after Bob left?"

"She had a habit of drinking too much sometimes, but after Bob left, things got better for a while."

"Didn't stay that way?" Peter guessed.

"No," Neal admitted. "But that's enough about me. What about your parents? Your dad is in construction, right?"

"Yeah. He did carpentry, brick work – a little bit of everything. Finally started his own contracting business in Ithaca."

"That's got to be nice, building things."

"He liked it. I remember he'd take me to building sites as a boy, tell me about the importance of a good foundation and infrastructure. _'The fanciest exterior can't make up for a bad core, Petey.'_

"Petey?"

"He hasn't called me that for a long time."

"Does he still have the business?"

"Semi-retired. My folks moved to Arizona about three years ago – time to get out of the cold. My youngest sister runs the business day to day, but dad keeps his hand in. Usually comes up a couple of times a year to check things out."

"Nice. And your mom?"

"Schoolteacher. She spent forty years shaping young minds."

"What did she teach?"

"Mostly social studies, political science, history. She loved it, said there was nothing better than seeing a student struggle, and then suddenly have what she called an 'ah-ha moment' when they finally understood."

"Did she retire too?"

"Yeah. They moved to Tucson to take it easy – and a year later, she was running for the school board. Still more kids to help, I guess."

"Wow, a politician in the family!"

Peter smiled. "Yup. But no funny business in her campaign finances!"

"Oh, I'm sure."

"They're coming up for a visit next month. Maybe you'll get to meet them."

Neal turned his head, looking at the back wall. "I don't think your dad would like me much."

"What do you mean?"

"I can put on a nice exterior," Neal replied. "But he probably wouldn't think much of my foundation and infrastructure."

"Neal…"

Any further conversation was cut off as the elevator car lurched and then started to slide…

* * *

"You're _sure_ you want to do this?" Reynolds asked.

"I'm sure we _need_ to do this," Diana answered, letting a firefighter help her don an air tank over the protective gear she was wearing.

"Yeah, no question," Jones agreed. He lifted the air mask to his face, breathing in deeply as a test, just as he had been instructed. Then he nodded, indicating he was ready.

"We have the fire mostly contained, but there's still a good deal of chemical smoke," the chief warned. "You may not have much time inside."

Diana checked her mask and then nodded. "Then we better get going."

Reynolds turned and gestured toward two firefighters dressed in the same protective gear. "You follow Wells and Sherman, do exactly as they say. If you don't, I'll have you dragged out."

"Let's just do this," Jones said, starting toward the building. "If Peter and Neal are still in there, it must mean they can't get out on their own. And _that_ means they need help."

….


	6. Secrets

Neal struggled back to a seated position and slid painfully toward where Peter was slumped in the corner. "Peter? Peter!"

Peter's eyelids flickered, and then he looked over. "What happened?"

"I'm not sure why, but the elevator car just dropped again."

"Can we get to a door yet?"

Neal pushed himself back against the wall, using it to lever himself to his feet. _And it felt like his gut was on fire – oh yeah, definitely something wrong inside._

Stumbling against the angled floor, he got to the front and managed to throw the lever to open the inner gate. The two doors started to part, and then lurched to a stop after a couple of feet. Shaking his head, Neal slowly reached up, trying to push…

And promptly fell to the floor, groaning in agony.

"It's more than just a couple of cracked ribs, isn't it?" Peter asked.

Neal sucked in a few breaths. "I may have played a doctor a few times, but I'm not really one."

"Is your abdomen swollen?"

Neal nodded slowly. "And hard."

"You're bleeding internally."

"Probably."

Peter took a deep breath and tried to push himself up – only to fall back when his wounded leg refused to cooperate. "I don't think I can do it either."

"Give me a minute. I'll try again."

"Neal, the car is twisted. The doors must be off the track."

Neal leaned back, looking into the gap between the car and the shaft. "I can see the outer gate, right up above the car." _Which, right now, might as well be a mile away…_

"They'll find us," Peter said, putting all the confidence he could into the words. "They will."

* * *

The firefighters used the pry bars to pull the door open, motioning for the two agents to stand back. As the door fell away, black smoke poured out.

They waited a moment, letting the worst of the smoke clear. Then they switched on the powerful search beams they carried and moved into the building.

* * *

"So why did you leave high school?"

"I thought we were talking about you."

"Nope, we finished. Back to you."

Neal turned his head to his shoulder, muffling a deep cough. For a long moment, Peter didn't think the younger man was going to answer, but he finally started to talk.

"Things were better for a while after Bob left. Mom wasn't drinking so much. Jen started college, Rhonda was a senior."

"Sisters?" _That had never come up before…_

"Yeah."

"But _something_ happened."

"Frank happened," Neal said softly. "My sophomore year, he came home with mom. She started drinking again – though I'm not quite sure if it was the drinking that led her to Frank, or if it was being with Frank that led to the drinking."

"Bad news, huh?"

"Mom had a pretty good job as a buyer for a department store chain, and somehow she managed to keep it, even with the drinking. But Frank… he wasn't so interested in working. He did odd jobs, a few temporary things, that was about it. He was draining what mom was doing."

"But she didn't like to be alone," Peter said softly, remembering Neal's earlier statement.

"Yeah. I think she knew what he was doing, but she just couldn't bring herself to get rid of him and be alone. So she drank more at night." Neal's voice trailed off and he looked away. "When she passed out, Frank liked to come to my room."

"Oh, Neal…"

"I loved my mom, Peter," Neal continued quickly. "I didn't tell her for a long time. But when I did, she cried, and hugged me – and said she couldn't bear to lose him and be alone."

Peter reached out a hand to the younger man's shoulder. "Neal, I'm so sorry."

"No, don't feel sorry for me, Peter. I've always been a survivor."

"That's when you left school?"

"And home." Neal paused, a slight smile crossing his face. "I was doing my first forgeries."

"What?"

"Fake IDs for my classmates – and some of them paid pretty well, so I had a little money put away." He smiled again at the look on Peter's face. "Sixteen years – I think the statute of limitations has run out. But I made myself a new set of ID; better to be twenty than seventeen when you're trying to establish yourself in San Francisco."

"Maybe that's why I couldn't find out much about your earlier years – you skipped a few."

"Well, I went back and picked them up again, once I was a little older. But a little mystery is good, Peter."

"What about your mom? Did you stay in touch?"

"I'd call her once in a while, make sure she was all right. She finally dumped Frank about a year after I left."

"But you didn't go home?"

"Things were getting kind of busy for me by then." Neal shrugged, and offered a small smile. "I don't want you to think it was all bad, Peter, because it wasn't. When mom wasn't drinking, she was a lot of fun to be around. She liked to go to museums, and street fairs. We used to walk around looking at all of the artists, and she'd tell me how that would be me someday. She'd take us to parks, or to the beach, and she'd sit in the sun and pose while I sketched her. Her smile…"

"As good as yours?"

"Oh, hers was better – _way_ better!"

"When's the last time you saw her?"

"About a year before you arrested me." Neal shifted, wincing at the pain the movement caused. "She wrote to me, after I was sentenced. Said she was coming to visit, even gave a date. I waited all that day… and the next visiting day, and the next. But she never came. So I wrote back to her, asking if everything was all right." He paused, sighed. "The letter was returned, marked _'moved, no forwarding address.'_"

"So you don't know where she is?"

Neal shook his head. "But I figure the message is pretty clear – a husband _and_ a son in prison was just too much. I mean, I wasn't exactly hard to find for four years."

"You walked out easily enough once you decided to go. I'm surprised the prison walls held you that long."

That earned a grin. "Oh, Peter, I had half a dozen escape routes figured out within the first couple of weeks of being inside."

* * *

Clearing each floor took a long time. They had to check each room, moving far enough in so that the hand-held lights could illuminate the corners, cutting through the smoke and the dust raised by the explosion.

Up and down the first floor corridor they called out Peter and Neal's names, but there was no response.

When the last room had been cleared, they climbed the stairs to the second floor.

* * *

"Wait, you're saying you could have escaped any time you wanted to?"

"In theory, at least. I mean, I never actually tried any of the other ways."

"Don't take this wrong, but… why not?"

"Maybe I thought you deserved a break from chasing me," Neal suggested.

"Yeah, I'm sure you were thinking that."

Neal coughed again, hiding his hand quickly when a few flecks of blood appeared. "I don't know, maybe if you'd managed to get all of the charges you guys threw at me to stick… then I might have run earlier. But four years? I also figured out in those first few weeks who to make the deals with, and how to play the game inside. So I knew I could do four years, prove to Kate that I was ready to be a responsible partner. I mean, I lost her in the first place because I ran off to do a job with Alex."

"All for Kate," Peter said softly.

"She's the only visitor I ever had, Peter. Inside, it was like real time had stopped. I mean, I was _doing_ time, but nothing outside those walls really mattered. Not to me." He paused, finally looking over at Peter. "Kate kept things real for me. I guess that's why I was so desperate to believe in her, even when you and Mozzie thought she was using me."

"Time didn't stop for her," Peter said, as gently as he could.

"No, it didn't."

"Good thing for me that Kate was so important to you. I might still be chasing you otherwise."

"Probably," Neal said, a wistful smile on his face. "You know, I'd been warned that the storage unit was probably a trap, and I saw the van outside. But I really thought I had gotten in past a blind spot in your cameras."

"You did," Peter admitted. "We never _saw_ you."

"Then how…?" Neal paused, shaking his head as he answered his own question. "You had microphones inside."

"Yeah, we heard you."

"Well played, Agent Burke."

"Hey, I knew I had to bring my A-game to catch James Bonds." He turned his head slowly, looking at Neal. "Knowing what you do now, was it worth it?"

"What, running for Kate?" Neal shrugged and closed his eyes again. "Like I said, she's all I was holding onto inside. I had to know."

"Did she know it was Adler who was behind all of this?"

Neal nodded slowly. "Adler admitted he was the one she called from the plane. Right before he blew it up."

* * *

The second floor was clear, but there was debris blocking the stairwell when they tried to get to the third floor. They had no choice but to take the time to clear the way…

…


	7. Recovery

"You should loosen that tourniquet again for a minute."

Peter nodded, fumbling with the belt. His fingers felt like they were barely even attached to his body, and it was getting hard to concentrate. Despite the tourniquet and the bandage, he'd noticed a continued slow flow of blood from the wound, and the evidence was all around him as he sat in a large, red puddle. And it was making him so tired.

_He closed his eyes, just for a minute…_

"No, Peter, stay with me. You have to stay awake."

Peter forced his eyes open, aware that Neal was now trying to get the belt tightened again. But the younger man seemed to be struggling with his movements too. "Keep talking," he said wearily. "It's keeping me awake."

"I think I've already told you just about everything."

"No." _There was something else he'd wanted to follow up on…_ "San Francisco. What happened there?"

Neal got the tourniquet back in place and sank down against the wall. "I met Randy."

"Randy? The gem guy?"

"Different Randy. This one owned a small art gallery. I got a job there – cleaning, setting up shows, whatever odd jobs he needed done."

"This was when you were twenty going on seventeen?"

"Yeah. There was one night, I'd been there late setting up a new showing opening the next day, and one of the paintings just grabbed my attention. Randy sometimes offered some classes there, so he had supplies in a back room. I got a canvas, and just started painting what I saw."

"Your first painting forgery?"

Neal nodded. "At some point, I fell asleep, and Randy found me there in the morning. I thought he'd be mad… but instead, he started taking me to some of the bigger museums in the city. And he'd ask me if I could copy certain paintings."

"So that's how it all started?"

"Yup. I'd paint, he'd take the finished canvases, and I'd get some money."

"Simple."

"I really didn't know at first what he was doing with the paintings. I just knew I was a seventeen year old in the big city, and I was making money with my art. But eventually, I started seeing articles in the paper about museum break-ins…"

"Added up two and two?"

"Well, I wasn't a _mathlete_ like you, but yeah, things kind of added up. I finally asked Randy what was going on, and he told me – and then he told me we could make a whole lot _more_ money. A few weeks later he took me to Europe for the first time. The museums were bigger, the paintings older and more fabulous. He taught me how to age a painting, and eventually I started going out with his crew. I learned to pick pockets, pick locks, bypass security systems, crack safes."

"All those highly useful skills in life."

"You seem to find some of those skills useful now. And the thing is, Peter, they all just came so naturally to me."

Peter just nodded. "So what happened to Randy?"

"It was about two years later. We'd just gotten a big score in Oslo, and we crossed over to Belgium to lay low for a little while. We were staying in Antwerp, and the second day, he just disappeared – along with most of my money."

"What?"

Neal offered a sad grin. "I haven't always had the best luck with partners," he said softly.

"Including your current one?"

"I'd like to think there's still hope there. I mean, I trust him, and maybe someday he'll trust me, at least a little bit."

"Neal…"

Neal held up his hand, struggling to his feet. "Do you hear that?"

_There was something, very faint…_

"Here!" Neal was shouting, trying to shake the cage doors. "Down here!"

Peter tried to get to his feet, but he didn't have the strength. He slid back into the corner, pounding against the wall with what little reserve he had left.

Neal bent over, nearly falling, and took off his shoe, reaching up to use the footwear to pound on the doors. "Here! We're here!"

_There was muffled sound from above, and then the most wonderful sight…_

The outer door to the elevator shaft opened and a figure, fully cloaked in firefighter gear, leaned down. "Peter? Neal?"

"Jones." The name came out as little more than a sigh as Neal slumped back to the floor.

"Hey, are you guys hurt?"

"Peter's been shot."

The figure leaned in a little farther, reaching down to try and open the inner gate doors.

"They're stuck," Neal said. "I can't get them any farther apart."

The figure disappeared again for a moment, and there was the sound of more voices coming from up above. And then a new voice came to them.

"The fire department is sending in equipment," Diana called. "We'll get you out. Just hang on."

Neal crawled back over to where Peter was sitting, collapsing alongside. "You'll be all right," he whispered, holding out his hand.

"We will," Peter said, taking his partner's hand. "We will."

* * *

The news from the doctors was mixed. Both men had suffered some smoke inhalation, but were expected to recover without any lasting effects.

Peter's leg wound had led to a major loss of blood, but the bullet injury itself wasn't considered major. The projectile had missed the bone, and Neal's makeshift tourniquet had stemmed enough of the blood loss, while still allowing some flow to the rest of his leg. It took a couple of days to get his blood level back up and stabilized, and a couple more days for him to start some rehab and get back on his feet, with the aid of a walker, and then crutches. But five days after the explosion, he was released to home care under the watchful eyes of Elizabeth and Satchmo.

Neal's injuries, though less visible, were more serious. It took four hours of surgery to repair the internal injuries, and even then the peritoneal tears had allowed bacteria in where it shouldn't be and he developed a serious infection. To give his body the best chance to fight back, the doctors kept him sedated for a week, while pumping him full of powerful antibiotics. Throughout the next week, a parade of people kept vigil.

* * *

_Pain. Light stabbing at his eyes. It hurt, and he wanted it to stop. He wanted to keep his eyes shut, and make the pain go away…_

In the end, keeping his eyes shut didn't make it hurt any less, and he gave in to the alternative. His eyelids fluttered, opened, closed, and then opened again.

It took a moment for his vision to clear. A white ceiling, guard rails on his sides, tubes everywhere, machines beeping…

_Hospital._

He vaguely recalled getting this far a time or two before, but this time waking up seemed to work.

There was a sound off to his right and, almost as though moving in slow motion he turned his head that way. "Peter?"

The agent was already getting to his feet, somewhat encumbered by the crutches. He finally tossed them aside and hopped on his good leg until he was at the bed. "Hey. Welcome back."

Neal nodded, swallowing against what felt like a wad of cotton balls in his throat. He wanted to say so many things, ask so many questions, but in the end only one word came out. "Water?"

"Yeah, let me get the nurse, make sure what you can have." He stabbed at the call button on the side of the bed.

"How long?"

Peter hopped a couple of steps toward the door, looking into the hallway. "You've been here eight days, Neal. You've had us kind of worried."

Just then the charge nurse – short blond hair, dressed in the ICU's standard teal colored scrubs – came into the room, smiling as she saw Neal's eyes open. "Good to see you awake, Mr. Caffrey. My name is Teri."

"He was asking for water," Peter said. "I wasn't sure what he could have."

Teri nodded and moved to the sink, pulling a styrofoam cup out of the cupboard. "You can definitely have water," she said, starting to fill the cup. "We'll just want to make sure to track your intake and output for a while yet, make sure your kidneys are really recovering."

"Kidneys?"

Peter hopped back to the bed, leaning against the rail. "You did a pretty good number on yourself, buddy. Between the initial injury, and the infection you developed, you've given us a few scares."

Teri snapped a lid on the cup and inserted a bendable straw into the top. She stopped at a whiteboard by the door, noting the amount of liquid, and then brought the cup to the bed. Sliding one hand under Neal's neck to support him, she lifted his head slightly and held the straw to his lips. "Just go slow," she warned.

His lips wrapped around the straw and he sipped greedily, ignoring the slow warning. But it turned out to be too much, and he started to cough.

Not knowing what else to do, Peter laid a hand on Neal's shoulder, offering moral support, if nothing else, until the younger man's shuddering coughs stopped.

As Neal leaned back against the pillow, Teri held the cup out again. "Want to try again, but slowly this time?"

Neal nodded. "Sorry."

"It's pretty common, actually. You feel like you're dehydrated. But it's only your mouth and throat. The rest of your body has had plenty of fluids," she explained, pointing at the IV pole.

Neal nodded again, and leaned toward the straw. This time he managed to take small sips, swallowing between each one. It still felt like he wanted to just guzzle the precious liquid, but the slower intake didn't make him cough. And, after a few sips, he was feeling better.

Teri set the cup aside and checked the readings on the monitors. She made a couple of notes on a chart and then started for the door. "I'll get some ice water sent in," she promised. "That'll feel even better on your throat. Just remember to sip slowly."

"So how's he doing?" Peter asked.

"Everything's looking better. I'll let Dr. Lynds know that Mr. Caffrey is awake. I'm sure she'll be in as soon as she can."

"Thanks." Peter turned back to the bed, pulling a chair up close to the bed so he could sit down.

"How bad?" Neal asked, watching.

"On the mend. I lost a lot of blood, that was the worst thing. But they fixed me up and kicked me out of here three days ago."

"That's good." Neal closed his eyes, struggling to get his thoughts in order. "What's wrong with my kidneys?"

"Hopefully, nothing. Look, the doctor will explain it better. You had some major internal bleeding going on, and you developed a massive infection. It was affecting a lot of your organs. But the last results I heard, everything was looking better."

"Is everything else still there and working?"

Peter gave a small laugh. "Yeah, you're still in one piece. And working, as far as I know." He leaned closer, laying a hand on Neal's arm. "Do you remember what happened?"

Neal opened his eyes and looked over. "Yeah, I think so. At least most of it. That old building, the counterfeiting, the explosion, the elevator."

"Yeah, I guess those are the highlights."

Neal reached out a trembling hand for the cup of water, taking a couple of sips. "Hope I don't have to pick any locks anytime soon," he said scowling at the shaking appendage.

"Hey, you've been on your back for over a week, and your body's gone through a lot. But I don't think you'll have to plan a breakout from here."

"Mozzie might disagree."

"He's been here, you know."

"Mozzie came here? I'm… amazed."

"There have been a lot of people here, Neal. You haven't been alone. But I'm kind of glad I was the one here when you woke up."

"Yeah, me too."

"We talked about a lot of things in that elevator. Do you remember?"

Neal nodded. "Want to know why I told you all of that?"

"I assume there was more to it than just that I asked?"

"You've _asked_ before, Peter."

"True. All right, why?"

"It was important to me that you got some of those answers." Neal paused for another sip of water. "I've never told anyone most of that."

"Not even Mozzie?"

Neal shook his head. "I trust Moz – but not like you. I wanted to prove that. Show you that I really do trust you."

"By showing me what's behind the curtain?"

"Yeah. The shaky infrastructure behind the fancy exterior." He paused, struggling to get his eyes to focus on the other man. "I'm not a victim, Peter. That wasn't why I told you any of that."

"And I wouldn't think that you were. The Neal Caffrey I know is a survivor."

"Yeah, I…"

"Neal!"

They turned their attention to the door as Elizabeth walked in, two cups of coffee in her hands. She handed one to Peter, set the other down, and leaned in carefully over the bed, giving Neal a gentle hug. "Oh, I'm so happy to see you awake," she said, leaving him with a soft kiss on the forehead.

"He had to quit faking sooner or later," Peter grumbled through a smile.

Ignoring her husband, Elizabeth brushed Neal's hair back, her touch tender. "How are you feeling?"

"I've been better," Neal admitted. "But I guess I've been worse too."

"Yeah, you had us kind of worried."

"Sorry."

"Well, you saved my husband's life, so I'll forgive you this time. Just don't scare us like that again."

"I'll try."

"Well, I was never really worried," Peter said. "I own your ass for another two years, Caffrey, and you did _not_ have permission to die."

Neal smiled and closed his eyes. "Right," he said, trying, but failing, to stifle a yawn.

"Get some rest, Neal," Elizabeth said, her fingers wrapping in his. "Someone will be here when you wake up again."

…


	8. Waiting

It seemed like, after being unconscious for eight days – or so he'd been told – that he shouldn't be so tired. And yet, the first two days after he regained consciousness, it felt like he could barely stay awake. Oh, a half hour here, twenty minutes or so there, but then he'd be nodding off again.

The doctor said it was normal, but it didn't _feel_ normal to him.

By the third day, things were a little better. He actually made it all the way through dictating his report, answering the questions Hughes asked while a court reporter recorded everything.

_And when the reporter was gone, Hughes had actually put a hand on his shoulder and said the words 'good job' to him. Wow, the world really might be ending…_

He hadn't put _everything_ into his official statement, of course. No, the conversation he and Peter had shared would just stay between them.

People continued to stop by, and he rarely woke up to find himself alone in the room. June was there quite a bit, and Samantha stopped by for a while after school. Sara dropped in for the first couple of days, until her latest insurance recovery case took her off to Colorado. Peter had started his outpatient physical therapy in the mornings, and he would stop by Neal's room when he was done – usually to complain, loudly, about the torture techniques employed against him. But then they would play cards and maybe have lunch together until Elizabeth could get away to take Peter home. The two of them often came back in the evenings.

_He was still working on Elizabeth to get her to sneak a cup of coffee in for him…_

Jones and Diana stopped by each day as well, keeping him up to date on all of the office gossip. Peter was always out of the loop on that, even when he was at work, so Neal appreciated the updates.

Mozzie tended to appear late at night, as if the shadows made it somehow safer to be in the hospital. But since Neal's sleep pattern was, to put it mildly, rather _off_, it was good to have someone there to talk to. And by dawn, when the rhythm of the hospital picked up again, Mozzie would be gone.

By the fourth day, the nurses had him up in a chair, and he could pretty much feed himself again. The shaking had decreased to where it was barely noticeable – unless he was trying to lift a spoonful of soup to his mouth. _Well, the soup here wasn't nearly as good as what he made anyway, so no real loss._

He flirted his way through a sponge bath, making that awkward practice at least _slightly_ less so. Still, it was hard to be at full charm-strength when he could barely move on his own. And, yeah, the stupid catheter didn't help either…

On day five, he tried walking. The first results were, to put it mildly, embarrassing. It was like being a toddler all over again, trying to get his legs to cooperate with the rest of his body. Even with help, he barely made it across the room on his first try. But the second try was a little better, and the third a little better than that.

By the sixth day, he demonstrated that he could, quite carefully, get out of bed on his own and use the walker to make it to the bathroom and back. _And he was definitely __not__ going to miss the damn catheter!_

Throughout those days, all of his lab tests continued to come back with encouraging results. The infection was gone, his kidneys were functioning, his cardiac enzymes were in the normal range, and his lungs were clear from any smoke damage.

Still, it was another three days before the doctor would sign his discharge papers. He used the time doing the therapy assigned, and doing some research on the laptop Mozzie had brought in for him.

They finally sent him home… and the climb up to his apartment nearly sent him back to the hospital. But Elizabeth and Diana were there to support him, while Peter waited close behind them, unable to assist because of his own injury. The three of them hovered, trying to do things for him, until he finally sent them all away – with thanks, but a firm statement that he just really needed some time alone.

_Oh, and a strong promise not to even think about trying the stairs again._

Reluctantly, he bypassed the wine selection – which definitely seemed to be diminished from what he remembered being there some two weeks earlier. _Yeah, he'd have to ask if Mozzie had __any__ idea how that might have happened._ But he still had another week of antibiotics, which did not mix well with alcohol, so it didn't really matter for the moment anyway.

And someone had stocked his refrigerator with plenty of juice in lots of varieties.

He poured a glass of orange juice and then, ignoring the walker he knew he should be using, he made his way slowly to the balcony doors and out onto the terrace. The air was fresh, the view as unparalleled as he remembered.

_It was good to be home._

* * *

Neal started his own physical therapy sessions, and the first few left him so worn out he could barely do anything else. But his stamina improved a little each day, and he was soon able to add a short walk or two in to help in his recovery. And he could spend more time in front of the computer or at the library, continuing his research.

He started another type of therapy as well. True to his word, Peter got him set up with the same therapist the agent was seeing following the shooting. And, somewhat to his surprise, Neal found himself able to open up about what had happened in that building, how it felt to be firing the gun, what it meant to realize he had shot someone. After a few sessions, he could sleep through the night again without seeing the gun flashes over and over in his nightmares.

_And he graciously, but firmly, declined the therapist's offer to delve into other areas of his past._

Yes, his world was coming back together…

Which meant it was time.

…


	9. Ruined and Fixed

Peter made the turn as directed by the GPS unit, merging onto Washington Street. According to the display, he'd turn again, onto Ganesvoort, in a few blocks.

Neal's message had been quite cryptic, and he found himself pushing the local speed limit a little.

_Okay, maybe more than a little._

He backed off the gas, watching the map display count down the blocks. Finally, he was there, turning left. The marker showed the building halfway down the block on the right, which appeared to be a storage unit business.

_So why would Neal…_

Well, there was the man in question, standing up from where he had been sitting on the curb, waiting. So hopefully he could get answers soon.

Peter pulled over to the curb and parked, then got out of the car and walked toward the sidewalk. "What's going on, Neal?"

Neal took what appeared to be a nervous breath before answering. "There's something you need to see, Peter. But I need you to promise me something."

That made him nervous right there. "Like what?"

"That you'll remember what we talked about in that elevator, and why I told you those things. And that you'll listen, before jumping to any conclusions."

_Definitely nervous._ "I'm not sure I like where this is heading."

"Oh, you might, actually," Neal replied. "It'll answer some questions."

"Neal…"

"Peter, please. Just listen?"

Peter considered that for a moment and then nodded.

Neal took a deep breath before continuing. "That day at the docks, after the explosion, and you shooting Adler… I was pretty upset when I left, and I just wandered around for a long time. When I finally got home, I found this on my table." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card, handing it over.

Peter looked at the card, and then up at the street number on the building. "That's this place."

Neal nodded, holding something else out. "There was a key too. Unit A."

Peter found he was actually holding his breath as he took the key from Neal's hand and looked at the door. "Neal…"

"A picture's worth a thousand words, Peter. You just need to see it."

Peter's hand closed around the key as he started toward the door. Once inside, he took a moment to get his bearings, and then he saw the "A" on the door across the way.

The key slid into the lock easily and he stepped inside…

The sight that met his eyes was enough to take his breath away.

"I didn't lie to you, Peter," Neal said, his voice coming softly from the direction of the door. "I didn't steal it, I didn't plan it. I was as surprised that night as you are now."

"This… this is all of it?"

Neal walked closer, into view, and shrugged. "I haven't found an inventory or anything."

"I… but…" Peter paused, taking a deep breath and considering what he wanted to say. "I believe you, Neal," he started, knowing that he meant the words. "But if you didn't do it, then who? Alex? Mozzie?"

"Alex would never have left it to me. She might have left me a few crumbs, but she likes her money too much. Mozzie wouldn't have been so cryptic as to leave a card. He would have been bursting to tell me. And he would have asked me to help."

"So who does that leave?"

"I have a theory." Neal reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out some folded sheets of paper. He handed it over.

Peter glanced at the top sheet, and then looked back at Neal. "Adler's autopsy report?"

"I had Mozzie get a copy." Neal reached over and flipped to the second page. "He was dying, Peter. All his money, all his power, all his connections, and he finally found something he couldn't beat."

"Pancreatic cancer," Peter said, reading.

"Inoperable, and not responding to chemotherapy."

Peter stared at the report, trying to process the information. "All right, let's say he knew he was dying. That explains his timetable to find the sub now and get the treasure. But why would he leave it for you?"

"Before you got there, Adler said something to me. He said I was the closest thing to a son he'd ever had."

"So this is the family legacy?"

Neal shrugged. "Best theory I've got."

"But he was going to kill you."

Neal turned the report to the last page. "Personal property inventory. He was wearing a two-way transceiver."

Peter nodded, starting to understand. "We arrested a couple of his men not far away."

"They could have been watching for you, letting Vincent know when you were coming."

"So he'd know when to blow the explosives."

"And when to pull a gun on me."

"Knowing that I'd try to save you." Peter shook his head. "Suicide by cop."

"It's just a theory," Neal reminded him. "But it's the best one I've got. I mean, unless _you_ did it…"

"I didn't."

"You weren't at the top of my suspect list."

_Even though Neal had certainly been at the top of __his__ list…_ Peter took another look around, almost overwhelmed by the sheer volume of treasure surrounding him. "So, all of this…"

Neal stepped to one side, pointing at a grouping of artwork. "All of these pieces were stolen from Jewish owners," he said softly. "People who wound up in the concentration camps. Sara has a lot of international contacts. I thought she might be able to help track down survivors, or descendants."

"Yeah, good idea."

"These items all came from museums that are still around," Neal continued, indicating another grouping. "I'm not really sure what the protocol is for returning items."

"I guess you do have more experience with taking than returning."

Neal answered that with a shrug and a little half nod of his head, and then moved on to the next group of items. "These are from museums that were destroyed during the war."

"I guess we'll need to find someone versed in international law."

"Not Mozzie's area of specialization," Neal said, moving to yet another grouping. "I can't find any record of these items at all." He pointed over to the other half of the room, where a number of crates still stood unopened amid a mountain of loose objects. "I haven't even had a chance to look for information on any of those items yet. And I guess there could still be some documentation in one of those, but a lot of records were also lost during the war."

"So now we might be involving international salvage law too."

"Quite possibly. Sara found that map showing where the U-boat was believed to have gone down. It was in international waters."

Peter found his head swimming, so many thoughts trying to compete for his attention. He turned slowly, trying to actually comprehend the magnitude of what he was looking at. And then he saw the chest. "Wait, is that the…"

"Ark of the Covenant," Neal said softly from behind his shoulder. "I guess Spielberg and Lucas got it wrong. The Nazis really did find it."

"But something like that… I mean, how would you even know where it belonged?"

"The Ark was rumored to be in a lot of different places over the years, so who knows where it was even found," Neal said. "And antiquities laws weren't nearly as stringent seventy years ago. I called a couple of contacts in Germany and they're looking, but again, so much was lost."

"Imagine, a secret like that hidden for so long…"

"I'm not a particularly religious person, Peter – but this is an incredible find. It needs to be in a museum, where people can appreciate it, and study it."

"Yeah, incredible…"

* * *

The next several hours passed quickly as the two men lost themselves in opening the remaining crates and sorting what they found. Some of the items Neal was able to identify as coming from a particular museum, but most wound up in the 'to be identified later' category.

Anticipating this expenditure of time, Neal had brought coffee and sandwiches – though he was quick to point out to Peter that there would be _NO_ deviled ham allowed in his storage unit.

Finally, by mid-afternoon, the physical toll of recent injuries, combined with the work they had done, caught up. Neal poured the last of the coffee into their cups and they sat on the floor, side by side, leaning against an empty crate, surveying the room.

"This just doesn't seem real," Peter said.

Neal nodded. "I know, and I've seen it before."

"I just…" Peter stopped, shaking his head. "You could have kept all of this," he said softly. "If I didn't find any evidence that you stole it…"

"Which you wouldn't," Neal cut in. "Because I didn't do it."

"So you could have kept it all, and been set to live like a king."

"The thought crossed my mind," Neal admitted. "But you know, even that first night, when I was so _mad_ at you… even then, a big part of me wanted to call you, show you all of this."

"Really?"

"You've ruined me, Agent Burke."

"What, ruined a good con artist and thief?"

"Great. I was a _great_ con artist and thief."

"So what happened?"

"You happened," Neal said, so softly it was almost a whisper. "It wasn't supposed to be like that."

"What wasn't?"

"You. You were just supposed to get me out of prison. I'd help you for a while…"

"While you looked for Kate."

"Yeah. Real simple. Except you did something to me – and for the first time in a very long time, I had someone in my life who I didn't want to let down." He looked over at Peter. "Mozzie would say you brainwashed me."

"Or maybe I used the mind control chip we got from the aliens at Roswell," Peter suggested, reaching up to tap the back of Neal's neck. "Injected it right here one night after you'd had a couple glasses of wine spiked with Andorian… pixie dust."

That made Neal laugh out loud. "Yeah. Yeah, maybe that's it. You know, they just took a bunch of x-rays at the hospital. Maybe I should ask to see them."

"Maybe you should," Peter agreed, joining the laughter.

The laughter lingered for a long moment, and then Neal's expression turned serious again. "Even at the height of my former career, I wouldn't have wanted anything to do with what the Nazis stole from the people they were sending to death camps. And that," he continued, gesturing toward the Ark. "That's bigger than any one man."

"Unless maybe if you're Vincent Adler."

"And I'm not."

"I know." He leaned closer, nudging Neal's shoulder with his own. "Remember when we were talking about Ford, and you said people can change?"

"Yeah, you said 'maybe.'"

"Well, I guess _some_ people can change."

Neal sighed. "Keller said I was starting to sound like a lawman."

Peter just grinned, apparently trying not to laugh. "Does that scare you?"

"Maybe a little." Neal sighed again, shaking his head as he looked around. "I could have fenced just a fraction of this and been wealthy beyond what most people even dream of. I would have been gone, off to somewhere with no extradition, before you even knew what was happening. Eating the finest food, drinking the finest wine, bedding the finest women…"

"Would you have been happy?"

Neal shrugged. "I guess we'll never know," he said softly. "I would have sent you a postcard though."

Peter laughed, and then leaned over, reaching for the jacket he had shed hours earlier. "We got so tied up in all of this, I almost forgot that I had something to show you too," he said, pulling some printouts from the inside pocket. He handed one sheet over.

It didn't take Neal long to get the main message. "My dad's out."

"Yup. Living and working in Chico."

"Wow."

Peter handed over the next page. "There's more."

This time Neal audibly caught his breath. "Seattle."

"Yeah, your mom's there."

Neal sighed and leaned his head back against the crate, closing his eyes. "I guess I can write…"

"Might be better to do this in person."

Neal opened his eyes again, staring down at his left leg. The bottom of his jeans had ridden up, exposing the flashing green light on the tracker. "I think the west coast is a little out of my radius for another couple of years."

Peter shrugged casually. "Not if a responsible FBI agent agreed to accompany you."

"You?"

"It'll be a couple of weeks yet before I'm certified to go back to work, and I can do the exercises on the road." He handed one more sheet of paper over. "We leave on Monday."

"Peter, I…" Neal shook his head. Words didn't usually fail him, but this was one of the rare times as he looked at the e-ticket itinerary.

"Hey, would Butch leave Sundance hanging? Anyway, El is going to take off a few days too. There are some things she discovered on her business trip to San Francisco that she wanted to show me."

"So is this like a second honeymoon or something, and I get to tag along?"

"No, this is to get you some closure – or maybe open up some long-closed doors. I guess that's up to you." He set a hand gently on Neal's shoulder. "We'll have to have some ground rules, Neal. But I'll give you as much space as I can."

"Peter, I don't know what to say."

Peter got stiffly to his feet, stretching gingerly. "Well, you could tell me if you'd like to come to dinner tonight."

"Ummm, thanks, but June already invited me."

Peter nodded, shrugging into his jacket. "Going to sing more songs?"

Neal grinned and shook his head. "No audience tonight, so probably not."

"Well, enjoy. We'll talk tomorrow about plans for Monday." He took one more look around the room. "This _will_ all be here when we get back, right?"

"It'll be here. I've already done the whole soul-searching and deciding thing."

"All right. Want a ride home?"

"I think I'll walk." Neal held up the papers in his hand. "It's good for thinking."

* * *

Neal stood on the curb, watching as Peter drove away. And then he looked down again at the pages in his hand. _A link to his past, a chapter he'd thought was closed off to him…_

It was both exciting and frightening at the same time. _But he'd have Peter and Elizabeth there to see him through, and to catch him if things fell apart._

It was an incredible gesture on Peter's part. Maybe the last piece to fixing what had been broken between them that day on the docks a few short weeks earlier.

_And that was almost enough to make him feel guilty about the jewelry and other small, untraceable items he'd already moved from the storage unit into other, more secure stash locations. _

_Yeah, almost…_

* * *

_NB: Thanks to Tim DeKay for the idea of getting Peter and Neal stuck in an elevator and just letting them talk :-)_


End file.
